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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24600871">communion</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/reywrite/pseuds/reywrite'>reywrite</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>"remind me to tell you about agnes sometime", Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fire, Kissing, Soul Bond, Soulmates, i am sad and gay. please enjoy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:28:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,051</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24600871</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/reywrite/pseuds/reywrite</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The storm comes, as Gertrude would expect, when Agnes Montague’s patience runs out. </i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gertrude &amp; Agnes' soulbond allows them to feel each other's fear.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Agnes Montague/Gertrude Robinson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>communion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic brought to you by gay yearning and the song Agnes by Glass Animals.</p>
<p>Come say hi to me on <a href="littlelovegod.tumblr.com">tumblr</a>, if you like. :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Red wax curls up the rounded edge of a seal, pressing the lines of worn parchment together. </p><p>The letter is Gertrude’s last task for the day, written to a new contact by the name of Adelard Dekker, in response to his recent dealings with an avatar of the Viscera. She doesn’t know him well just yet, but his work speaks to his character. More importantly, he is willing to forge ahead in discovery and research, allowing her to stay in the area she prefers: prevention, and eventual destruction.  </p><p>Her tired hands have just lifted stamp from folded paper when she feels unmistakable fear, rushing cold into the depths of her stomach. The Archivist chokes out the only word her mind can form through the terror suddenly holding it hostage. “—Agnes.”  </p><p>She feels as if she’s just been doused with an entire pitcher of ice water—chilled to the bone and slightly nauseous—and it is obvious her soulbond with Montague is to blame. Not that she does blame it. However accidental this bond may have been, however much her charred lungs may be a consequence of banishment gone wrong, she does not feel any remorse. An ache, yes, a wish for things to be different, but never regret. </p><p>Gertrude closes her eyes, centering herself within the fear, allowing herself to know it fully. She is caught somehow, chest constricted and limbs heavy—and <em> cold, </em>so very cold. There is no breath here, no concept of up or down, left or right, just crushing pressure, fear, and—anger, a streak of fiery anger burning its trail through cold fear. </p><p>She is fully trapped: no inch of her skin is free from duress. Gertrude realizes with a sharp inhale that what suspends her is neither rock nor dirt, but water. Glacial water that ignores the scalding heat her body emits and fills her chest cavity, vying for her lungs and spilling over the edges of her ribs. The only thing that allows the Archivist to remember the linoleum she still stands upon is the strangeness of the emotions that war within her heart<span class="ILfuVd"><span class="e24Kjd">—</span></span>so familiar, yet so obviously not hers. </p><p>Agnes’ fear is different than any Gertrude has ever felt—for the Archivist does fear, although those who see her in action may not believe so. Agnes is a creature of destructive passion; her emotions reflect the pyre from which she was born. The Desolation fears like a tree fears a forest fire: angrily, ferociously, hungrily.</p><p>There is no question in Gertrude’s mind about her next actions. She lifts her jacket from its place on the back of her chair, and she is out the door without a word to anyone she passes. She tells herself her urgency is simple self-preservation, as the death of the soul bound to her own would not be a pleasant experience. But there is something more to it—a desire to protect, a fierce need to see Agnes safe and alive. So completely does this impulse fill Gertrude, she barely notices how close to the floor of her beaten Mercedes her foot presses the gas pedal. </p><p>With the Beholding taking surprise out of the equation, Gertrude’s hands know which turns to take and which roads to follow, allowing her mind to drift. She finds it oriented to the past, her imagination pulling back to a secluded patch of Scotland, surrounded by pine. </p><p>It is years ago now, that she had stood in that circle of trees, each boasting centuries of life, branches coated in rich bark and dripping with emerald needles, their trunks full to bursting with amber blood. Her intention, in this place, was to banish the Desolation’s messiah, effectively stopping any future ritual by rendering destructive vessel harmless. </p><p>Each tree held a jar, each jar held items of nature, their connecting thread an image of her own face, staring back at her, and a lock of hair from a woman she’d never met. She could feel the Web, its sticky tendrils pressing at the voyeur which lived inside her, and she remembers having to swallow a shudder as its strings molded themselves to her. </p><p>When she struck the final match, sealing the circle and assuring death to all who cross its boundary, she did not feel satisfaction, as she had hoped. Rather, bondage, a tightening of the red string of fate around beating heart and stretching bones. </p><p>From this moment on, the image of emerald eyes and auburn hair would be forever burned into her mind and body, a brand made in fire and cobwebs on her soul. </p><p>A mistake, certainly, one caused by the manipulation of the Mother of Puppets, but Gertrude can’t say she regrets it. </p><p>Her foot hits the brake, and the elastic of her mind snaps back to the present. Gertrude looks up to find she has stopped the car near the shore of Gammon Head, between rocky crags glinting purple in the sunlight. </p><p>Saline flavors the breeze as the Archivist stands, a hand to her face against the midday sun. It takes a second for her to spot the collapsed form: a female body, sprawled amongst the sea foam, its limbs caked in wet sand. It is the first time she’s ever seen the woman whose fire runs through her veins, at least in person, and she is almost sorry it has to be like this. </p><p>The guttural sound of hacking reaches Gertrude’s ears first. She’s heard the sounds of suffering plenty during her time with the Institute<span class="ILfuVd"><span class="e24Kjd">—</span></span>the crack of bone, the twist of flesh, the splatter of what’s beneath—but never has a noise affected her so much as this. With every shuddered inhale Gertrude’s pulse speeds; with every violent cough, a sympathetic ache spreads through her chest, sending her dropping to her knees beside the injured woman. </p><p>Brine drips from Agnes’ lips as she raises her head to acknowledge Gertrude’s kneeling presence, her breath still coming in broken gasps. </p><p>Gertrude waits until Agnes has gotten the worst of it out of her system, then poses her question. “The Buried, I assume?”</p><p>Agnes nods, throat still working through the last of the brine. </p><p>“An anchor is usually required to survive the Too Close I Cannot Breathe.” </p><p>“I could—I could feel you. The second I went under, I could feel your pull.” The voice of fire herself is sweet and heady, the last traces of salty thickness draining away with each syllable. </p><p>“I thought as much. I’m...glad I could help.” She offers a smile, a bit of relief creeping into its curve. “Although, it does seem a bit premature. You and yours won’t be attempting a ritual for years yet.” </p><p>Agnes shudders in response, still coming back into her natural heat, and Gertrude resolves to do some digging into the Choke’s motivations at a later date. </p><p>Gertrude stands, now confident that Agnes isn’t about to succumb to death’s seasalt call. “Need a ride?” </p><p>“That would be—“ Agnes stands as well, seeming to be better for Gertrude’s presence. Strands of auburn swing in clumps before her face, uncannily reminiscent of seaweed. “That would be appreciated, thank you.” </p><p>Reaching the getaway car is a task easier said than done, with Agnes’ waterlogged form dragging across white sand inch by arduous inch. Once it is done, however, Agnes settles into the car like it’s familiar, like the whole of this experience is familiar, just another day to her. She isn’t quite at the level of putting her feet up on the dashboard, but Gertrude wouldn’t put it past her. </p><p>Then again, maybe it is familiar. Maybe the entanglement of their lives has reached such a point that Agnes feels at home in a space so entirely Gertrude. </p><p>Gertrude puts the car into reverse, and watches the saltwater rise from Agnes’ skin as steam, faster the further they get from the Buried’s shore. She doesn’t need to ask where she’s going; she barely has to reach to find the information presented to her.</p><p>The feeling that this is where she <em> should </em> be, that her body and Agnes’ were never meant to be more than meters apart, is unshakable. It’s an awful satisfaction, felt all throughout her, made all the worse by the knowledge that it is impermanent. She finds her mind wandering as she drives, in an effort to distract herself from temporary indulgence, to the nature of the avatar to her right.</p><p>When the elder Montague made her choice, the baby within her womb was warped by destiny. The woman sitting next to her now is not human, something made obvious by the way the light turns her auburn hair to embers, or the way she holds herself, as if the earth’s core itself burns between sharp eyes. Agnes is crafted wholly by the Lightless Flame, molded by heat congenital into a perfect vessel for destruction.</p><p>She wonders what that must feel like, to give yourself so completely to the monsters that bend themselves along our world. Gertrude is not so attached to the Ceaseless Watcher as she could be--she serves it, yes, but only to an extent. Its goals, if it has such a mortal thing as goals, do not align with hers. But Agnes...Agnes is the strongest avatar she’s ever seen, and would be far stronger if Gertrude had not allowed the Web to tie their souls together some ten years ago.</p><p>A sudden warmth beside Gertrude’s hand on the wheel breaks her train of thought, and the solidity of Agnes' voice ensures it will not reappear. “Stop the car.”</p><p>Gertrude raises a dark eyebrow, but complies, pulling the vehicle to a stop by the side of the quiet road. Agnes’ gaze is fixed on an empty field, backed by pine trees. Its grassy expanse crawls just up to the edge of asphalt, sprigs of forget-me-nots and Queen Anne’s lace brushing against black tires. </p><p>“...I don’t want to go home. At least, not for the moment.” </p><p>A sigh is drawn from Gertrude’s lips, long and shot through with what she hopes comes across as impatience. Truthfully, she’d much rather stay with Agnes, and indulge the ache in her heart even for just a few hours, than return to her never-ending work. She nods, and turns the wheel, swinging the car into flora with only a hint of eagerness. </p><p>Agnes gets out the instant the engine stalls, barely giving the car a chance to reach a complete stop. Gertrude pulls the key from the ignition with a smile and a shake of graying waves, and pats her jacket’s left pocket, feeling the rectangular edge of the pack of Camels that rests within.</p><p>Gertrude takes her time getting out of the car, allowing her legs a luxurious stretch. When she finally does take her place beside Agnes on the roof of the Mercedes, her first action is to place a cigarette in her mouth, then lean towards Agnes, a question lighting up the honey-gold flecks in brown eyes. </p><p>Lips painted a shade deep and bloody quirk upwards as Agnes accepts, setting Gertrude’s cigarette aflame with a squeeze of thumb and index, then taking another for herself and repeating the gesture. </p><p>There is silence for a while, Gertrude with long legs stretched out against cool metal, and Agnes with knees drawn up to chest, hugging them to her dark umber sweater as if seeking comfort, or solidarity. </p><p>With no immediate need to realize destiny or stop doomsday, the two simply sit, and listen to the breeze rustle springtime growth, lost in separate thoughts. It is Agnes who speaks first, breaking the stillness with soft conversation. </p><p>“This is nice,” she notes, to which Gertrude agrees.“I could do it forever, I think.” </p><p>“Run away together?” The suggestion is offered dryly—it’s a nice sentiment, but Gertrude knows her place, and she would hope Agnes knows hers. </p><p>“Too romantic for you?” Agnes’ eyes burn bright in the waning light, and Gertrude’s smile twists in time with her heart. </p><p>She shakes her head, only a bit ruefully. “Romance is not a language I am fluent in.” Despite the truth of the words, Gertrude is still only half-sure she refrains from love by choice.  </p><p>Silence takes over once again, this time feeling less like a peaceful lull, and more like the rolling thunder before the storm. </p><p>The storm comes, as Gertrude would expect, when Agnes Montague’s patience runs out. </p><p>The press of heated lips to her own comes forcefully, angrily, as if Agnes is trying to make a point through the contact. The heat of it is nearly unbearable, sending knife-like pain through her mouth, and a rolling ache through her skull. Still she stays, knowing somehow that the fire of Agnes’ mouth will not cause her any lasting harm. It should, but it won’t—not for her. </p><p>Besides, the moth does not care how the flame scalds, only for its light. </p><p>When Agnes leans back, the smoky taste that still lingers on Gertrude’s tongue doesn’t seem to stem from cigarettes; rather, from something deeper, boiling beneath the surface of Agnes’ tentative humanity. She doesn’t give herself a chance to ponder what must burn below as she follows, already missing the warmth she should never have allowed herself to want. </p><p>As they part again, seconds or minutes or hours later, Gertrude feels something like anger—a desire to quench the thirst she’s had seemingly all her life, and the knowledge that she cannot. At least, not without significant sacrifice. </p><p>Agnes is not worth the world’s fate, she reminds herself. What must be done, is what must be done. </p><p>They settle into silence again, with Agnes seeming satisfied, and Gertrude frustrated.</p><p>Eventually, a slight breeze sends the tall grass slanting, and Gertrude speaks again. “You know, when the time comes for your ritual, it will be my fault that it fails.” </p><p>“I know,” Agnes replies with a tone almost soft, “You are the weight that ties me down, after all.” </p><p>Gertrude huffs in response. “I‘d like to think it’s a little more complicated than that, Agnes.” </p><p>“Complicated. And brutal. Just as you are.” The smile on deep red lips is somehow both genuine and joyless, as Agnes extinguishes her cigarette with a stifling press of fingers. </p><p>The Archivist allows herself one last puff, noting the way gray smoke curls as she releases it into the darkening sky. She pointedly does not take note of Agnes as the Desolation’s chosen pushes herself off the roof to land with a soft thud, crushing blossoms underfoot. </p><p>“Never for you, my dear.” She means it and she doesn’t. Brutality is the language she speaks, violence her cadence...but she wishes she knew softer words, if only to bring a smile to Agnes’ face. </p><p>Agnes snorts at this, an unhappy little sound. </p><p>The rest of the trip to Sheffield is spent in semi-silence, the quiet strains of Kate Bush on the radio and the sharp edges of unspoken conversation caught between them, carving frowns on both their faces. </p><p>Gertrude, for her part, is wondering not for the first time what the Spider gains in the tying of their lives. Are its tendrils pleased by their little excursion? Or would it rather they keep their distance, balancing each other across domains?</p><p>Guessing at the intentions of the entities, particularly one so enigmatic as the Web, is a loser’s game, a fact that Gertrude knows well. So she decides instead to give herself to the familiar static, letting her own theoretical god tug her down Sheffield streets towards Agnes’ flat. She never once allows herself to look towards her company, but still those eyes stay on her, bright green and ardent. </p><p>Their arrival at Agnes’ run-down building comes far too quickly and far too slowly. Gertrude finds herself spinning with paradox, equally glad to allow their parting, and wanting inexplicably for it to last longer. But there is nothing she can do for the latter; Agnes must return to her role as messiah. Besides, she doesn’t much like this place<span class="ILfuVd"><span class="e24Kjd">—</span></span>it is far too steeped in the hold of loss and destruction for the taste of what coils within her bones. </p><p>She does walk Agnes to her door—her edges may be hard, but ruthless is not synonymous with impolite. The trip from car to building is not long, but as they walk, Gertrude finds herself mesmerized by the way the ends of long auburn hair seem to flicker, coruscating against straight back like the light of a candle. </p><p>When Agnes turns to say goodbye with a polite nod and a thank you, Gertrude is almost surprised, so enthralled was she. </p><p>“Of course. Anything, for the soul tied to mine.” It’s said a little sheepishly, a little sarcastically, with the threads of what’s left unspoken threatening to strangle them both. </p><p>“I’ll have to pay you back sometime.” </p><p>With a wink and a click of oaken door, Agnes is gone, and Gertrude’s heartstrings begin to stretch once again, pulled just to the edge of breaking. </p><p>Left alone, Gertrude takes the long way back to London. She needs the time to think, to allow her mind its time to wander—with some restrictions, of course. No matter the effort it takes, she does not prefer the consequences of letting her thoughts stray to virescent eyes or scathing hands. </p><p>Eventually, she arrives back to a building empty but for the monsters it holds, and rows upon rows upon rows of documented trauma. Files full to bursting of violence brought upon innocents by people like Agnes Montague—by people like Gertrude Robinson. </p><p>Still, there is a faint smile on her face as she collects her things, left haphazard in her earlier rush. The day’s events have left a mark on her, an irreversible fondness for Agnes branded into her heart—one made not by the Web’s strings, but by her own fallacy. </p><p>Gertrude sleeps fitfully that night. Her dreams are full of auburn set alight, and a mouth that tastes of charred flesh. </p><p>Years later, she tells the eyes of Jonah Magnus in the skull of Elias Bouchard that the reason for her destructive passion is revenge for her cat, dead at the hands of the Desolation. It’s a lie, told through her teeth, with the tang of decades-old smoke threatening to fill her throat. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Second chapter up soon, promise! The rating may or may not go up to M for that one, ahah.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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